COLD TEMPERED STEEL LIKE WAR HARDENED MEN. As Fen Gisani gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of his longsword, he wasn’t sure which he hated more. The blade seemed to gain heft by the minute in the frigid spring air. Fen stood stoically—his right foot firmly planted behind him in one of the many defensive positions Sergaent Vonn had taught him—his eyes never leaving his friend, Ari, who circled him brandishing his own blade. The freshly sharpened edge glinted as it caught the afternoon sun.

“What’s the matter, Fen?” Ari asked, shifting his feet through the tall grass near the riverbank. “Scared of a real challenge? Need Sergeant Vonn protecting Lane’s prodigal son?”

“Do we have to use real swords?” Fen asked. This was far from their first practice duel, but nearly all of them had taken place on the castle training grounds with dull, training swords under the watchful eyes of their training sergeant. “What if I—you know—cut you?”

“Ha! I’m not worried about that.” Fen hated how small Ari’s smirk made him feel. In their fourteenth year, Fen was no more than a few weeks older than his friend, but no one would have guessed it based on how Ari often spoke to him. “You think a real foe would attack you with a practice sword?”

“No, but—”

“Then how will you be prepared when they do? We need real training with real consequences. You’ll be a far better swordsman if you fear every strike could maim you.”

The afternoon sun flashed off the point of Ari’s sword, and Fen imagined how furious his father would be if he returned home with any sort of wound—or worse. It was curious that the bright sun struggled to warm the sparse forest outside their Kingdom of Uron. The river running nearby was born high in the mountains, their snowy caps still not bare even in the late spring. In this fourteenth year, Fen had never seen snow still covering the peaks of Uron this close to summer. The jagged ridge separating their region of Sainette from the rest of the continent was typically a colorless grey by early spring, the terrain too rough and steep for trees to take root. Instead, white caps still stretched hundreds of feet down the mountain slopes. Whispers of a return to the Age of Gods—a time of unbridled bloodshed nearly a millennium ago—spread through the region as winter refused to release the kingdom from its grasp.

“But my father—”

Ari charged at Fen. He had done this hundreds of times before, but with the sharp edge of the sword shining threateningly in front of him, Fen found it difficult to remember his training. How Ari had convinced him to sneak real swords out of the castle and into the forest, Fen couldn’t remember. He could picture Sergeant Vonn shaking his head, disappointed that King Lane’s son was standing so absolutely dumbfounded in front of an attacker—an attacker with a sword sharp enough to cut Fen’s arms off in a single swing. Ari’s ferocity reminded Fen of a charging boar, and he wondered just how far Ari would take this practice duel. He didn’t want to find out and tightened his grip.

Fen stepped forward, burying his pristinely detailed boots in the grass, and heaved his sword upward. The clang of steel blades colliding sent echoes down the river, and birds cleared the surrounding trees.

“I was starting to worry I’d have to explain to your father that I accidentally killed the prince,” Ari said, pulling his blade back and repositioning his feet. “I wonder how long it would take for them to cut off my head. You think I’d even get to the end of the story? Or would the maids be forced to scrub my blood right off the castle doors?”

“You’ll have to fight better than that before worrying about my father.” Fen slashed his blade through the crisp air and found Ari ready for his counter, quickly parrying and brushing Fen’s sword to the side. The cold-hardened steel sent shockwaves up Fen’s arms, but he held his form, refusing to give Ari a chance of his own to retaliate. Fen was determined to knock that smirk off his face.

“And just how many times have you beaten me with Sergeant Vonn watching, making sure his precious little prince goes unharmed?” 

“A few—”

“And the hundreds of times you’ve been forced to shake my hand after a sound defeat?”

“A few more…”

“So, what makes you think that here, with no one watching but the Gods, you have the slightest chance of winning?”

Fen lunged forward. A gloating Ari was usually a distracted Ari. But Fen still wasn’t quick enough; Ari grinned and hopped to the side, letting Fen’s longsword pass to his left. This was the last position Fen wanted to be in. Swiftly, Ari pressed his boot into Fen’s stomach and pushed. With his sword outstretched in front of him, Fen had no choice but to tumble helplessly into the grass behind him. He scrambled back to his feet, refusing to drop his sword, and instinctively fell into a defensive stance. Attacking was never his strong suit. Ari was quicker, more confident, and far more brash, almost as if he had no fear of death, taking every chance he could to stare it in the eye, seeing who would blink first. Fen knew that—eventually—death would win. But not today.

Before Fen could work out an attack, Ari’s blade was slicing through the air toward him. Fen deflected blow after blow, but the strikes fell in quick succession, leaving no window for Fen to counter. So, Fen stood, his feet digging deeper into the dirt with each of Ari’s blows, as the flurry of attacks rained down on him. The steel fell at a blinding pace; all Fen could see was a blur of silver. The strikes stopped. Ari lifted the blade high above his head, his eyes bearing down on Fen with a fire he had never seen before, and Fen saw it—the opportunity he hoped his defense would eventually open. Fen let the weight of his blade fall to the dirt, swinging around in his hands. He clutched the hilt tightly and rammed the butt of the sword directly into Ari’s stomach. His eyes shot open, and the sword Fen feared more with each strike, fell to the dirt, the point slicing clean into the earth and remaining upright.

“Hells,” Ari cursed, his hands clasped over one another on his stomach. “Dammit—I yield. I yield. Can’t believe I let you get that shot in.”

“Add that one to my win column.” Fen slid his own blade back into its sheath, unfastened its buckle around his waist, and let it fall to the grass. He strode to Ari and wrapped his arm around his back. “Sorry about that—was a bit of a cheap shot.”

“No such thing as cheap shots when you’re fighting for your life, Fen.” Ari shook Fen’s arm off him and glared up with fire in his eyes. “Take every chance you can to end the fight; your opponent damn sure will.”

* * *

Sweat glistened on Fen’s arms, catching and reflecting rays of sunlight like the gentle stream near his feet, causing the fabric of his tunic to cling tightly to his chest. Fen reached down to his boots—dirt barely covering the soles that were diligently scrubbed early that morning before he woke—and yanked the laces free of their knots. He kicked them aside and slid down the riverbank until his bare feet dipped beneath the cool water’s surface, forcing an embarrassing squeal escaping his lips.

“Pretty strange the river is still so cold, isn’t it?” Ari mused, his own feet already soaking in the chilly, rushing water. “I swear, maybe the peasants are onto something.”

“Don’t call them that,” Fen snapped.

“Peasants? It’s what they are, Fen. You should know that better than anyone. One day, they will be your peasants.”

“I hate that word.” Fen grimaced at how pointed the last comment was. “They are all equally villagers in my eyes. Just because they work for my father, does not mean they are so beneath me that they lose their humanity.”

“It’s always been this way,” Ari said. “The peas—” He stopped himself this time. “The villagers seem to believe the reason the snow remains this late into the season is because a Goddess has returned and made the Vaelen Mountains her home.”

“You’ve never given the Gods much credence,” Fen said. “Why heed the words of people you view as so far beneath you?” 

“Maybe it is not their words. But, perhaps, it is to their notions of believing in something bigger than they are, something they have no power over having power over them. Maybe—maybe they miss having someone rule over them. Maybe what they need—what we need—is a return to the ways of the Gods.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Is it not so different from how your own father rules? Lording his power over others with his thoughtless commands. Maybe the villagers whisper about the Gods because they yearn for a strong hand. Not words of worry, but whispers of longing.”

“Father does not mercilessly kill those who disobey his commands!”

“Maybe, but King Lane does more than you know. More than he would ever want you to know.”

“The stories tell of ruthless Gods using humans as tools, treating them like animals! Our lives were nothing to them! My father is nothing like them!”

“And what of your villagers? Are their lives as meaningful as yours? Or, perhaps, does yours carry more value? After all, you have the power, nay, the responsibility to govern and protect the sovereignty over which you will one day rule. Does that not make your life more meaningful? Their deaths would affect maybe a few around them; your death would send tremors through the kingdom. Many more would die in the ensuing uproar and revolt it would cause. Does that not mean your life carries more value?”

“My life is mine to give to the people within our kingdom. If I am to die in service to them, then I am happy to do so.”

“Are their own lives not theirs to give for the purposes that they choose? What if they gave their lives to better this kingdom?”

“I won’t let them—”

“What if they had a more direct purpose? What if they yearn for a day when they no longer have the shortcomings of free will?”

“Shortcomings of free will?” 

“A day when they have a ruler giving them a clear direction. Maybe they need to be told exactly the purpose of their meaningless lives—”

“No!” The shout carried into the forest and sent birds scattering to the skies. Fen clenched his fists and felt his heart trying to leap from his chest.

“My life is the same as any other! I would gladly give it to save even one villager! What sort of man would throw the life of another under his feet so that he may climb one step higher? What sort of man would look to his neighbor, even one stricken by poverty or circumstance, and see him as less-than? One less worthy of life than himself? What sort of man would tell those below his station that their only purpose is to better the lives of their superiors? Not any man I want to become. Not any man I will ever become! While I continue to have the freedom to write my own destiny, so will all who live within this kingdom’s borders.”

Fen’s hands were shaking. He refused to break Ari’s stern gaze. They stared—unblinking—at each other in silence. The moment lingered.

“Perhaps you are right,” Ari finally responded after more than a minute passed, and Fen let his fists uncurl. Ari looked back to the skies, now spotted with clouds. “Hopefully, my dear Fen, you never have to find out.”

“In the face of whatever comes our way—I will hold steadfast to my convictions, Ari,” Fen declared. “I promise you this.”

* * *

Fen and Ari lay in a measured silence under the waning sun as the afternoon gave way to evening. A snowfox scampered in front of them, just a few feet from the river. Its fur was beginning to shed its snow-white luster, patches of orange appearing on its back and near its feet. It reached the water and lowered its small snout to the river’s surface.

Fen gasped. Ari yanked the fox into the air and tightened his hands around its writhing body—Fen had been so focused on watching it drink that he failed to notice Ari silently creeping toward it. The fox thrashed its head from side to side, baring its teeth as it tried to escape Ari’s grasp.

“What are you doing?” Fen shouted, suddenly afraid of his longtime friend. “Let it go!”

Ari didn’t budge. The fox’s eyes danced around wildly, desperately searching for any means of escape. It nipped the air, hoping to catch the flesh of its captor. To no avail; the fox’s efforts waned, and Ari clutched it until it had no room left to maneuver. Finally, the fox stopped struggling, broken and docile.

“See?” Ari said. “Even the wildest of animals become obedient when held under the will of a stronger being.”

Fen peered into the hopeless eyes of the captive fox. The fire and fight they held a few moments before had been extinguished, replaced by black orbs lacking a single flicker.

“We must be better than that,” Fen pleaded. “We must be just and honorable to the people who swear fealty—even to those who don’t.”

“Why must we lower ourselves to their level when it is our destiny to rise above them?” Ari ran his hand through the thick fur down the fox’s back.

“Our destiny is—”

Fen was interrupted by the harrowing snapping sound of the fox’s neck.

* * *

Fen’s eyes shot open. The sun, high above him, was unbearably bright. He raised his arm to shield his straining eyes from the light. It was hot, much hotter than it had just been. When his eyes adjusted, he glanced around. The river was gone. Ari was nowhere to be seen.

“Ari?” Fen called out to his friend.

“Ari? Are you there?”

He waited for a response that would not come.

“Ari, where are we?”

Fen tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t budge. He pawed blindly at the terrain around him. His fingers grazed the tops of tall, silken blades of grass dancing in the wind. Above him, birds chirped to one another, their unfamiliar songs carried in the breeze. The grass caressed Fen’s bare skin, tickling his unadorned frame.

Am I naked?  Fen stopped struggling to move and let the wind wash over him. The hairs across his body—much thicker than he remembered—felt the currents blow through them.

Fen tried to remember how he had gotten here, where all of his clothes had gone, and where Ari was. But reaching back, he found nothing. He tried to think back to before the duel with Ari by the river. Where was he before that day? Fen couldn’t recall a single thing. Was it a memory or had it simply been a dream? Whatever it was, though, it was the only thing Fen knew.

The initial intensity of the sunlight faded. Muddled shadows gave way to unfamiliar stalks of amethyst and lavender swaying in the breeze. Grand, wispy trees marked the edges of the valley and watched over the field like towering sentries. The songbirds, whose voices soared like foreign cherubs, fluttered amongst the trees’ emerald leaves, hopping from one branch to another. The sun, high in the early afternoon sky, cast barely a shadow on the pasture.

Where—where am I? Fen was certain of one thing: this was not spring in Uron.

Fen pressed his hands into the dirt, firm and solid under his palms, and lifted himself slowly off the ground. After a few inches, though, his arms buckled, and he crashed back to the earth.

Come on! 

Fen clutched two handfuls of grass and drove his fists back into the soil. He shot up, but his arms crumbled again, and Fen collapsed with a deafening thud, sending clouds of dust dancing into the sky only to vanish in the wind. Every numbed sensation returned in a rush. His arms and back, swollen and—by the feel of it—painted with bruises, sprung to life as the pain surged through his body. A loud, piercing cry escaped his lips before Fen coughed, gasping as his lungs struggled to swallow air.

The sudden deluge of pain was too much. The birds’ songs faded, and the world went black.

* * *

The sun had long set when Fen woke again. The birds were silent, long asleep or flown away. Fatigue had faded, but Fen found himself missing it as pain was quick to fill its vacuum. Careful not to overestimate his regained strength, Fen tenuously climbed to his feet. How long had it been since he last stood?

Fen surveyed the horizon, looking past the nearby trees that seemed like giants earlier, but now stood only a few feet higher than his head. In the distance, the valley was surrounded by rolling hills—a grassy knoll blanketed in spiraling trees.

For the first time, Fen noticed the ring on his right hand. He pulled at it and found it slipped off with ease. The band was gold and thick, nearly as thick as the knuckle he slipped it over. A massive, square-cut ruby sat in the setting, framed by smaller red gems. Fen turned it over in his hand and noticed a carving inside the band. The inscription read:

“Gisani. Born of stone, Forged in fire.”

Gisani. Am I Gisani? Fen Gisani? Fen looked again to the edges of the world around him, hoping something near him would spark a deeper memory. Nothing. I—I don’t even know my own name.

A breeze rolled through the valley and quickly reminded Fen that he was bared to the world. He needed to find somewhere warm. His stomach growled. He needed to find something to eat. Fen had no idea where he was—hells, he barely understood who he was—but he would not survive for long if he remained in the valley much longer.

Fen slipped the golden ruby ring back onto his right ring finger. It was loose, but it felt right. Born of stone. To his left, a winding path cut through the hills. Without the sun, it was impossible to tell which direction it was. But, as a stranger to this land, it was not as if knowing it was east or west would help. He hoped the path would lead to a town or village filled with people who were willing and able to help. He hoped he was not so far from Uron that they spoke a different language. Forged in fire. Fen took his first step forward; his first step toward hope.